“Please, just…give me a sign. Give me something. Help us!”
Dormael turned his gaze back to the stone bowl, and was smacked with an impression. Two men appeared to either side of the altar, holding a woman between them in a moment of violent struggle. One of them—an older man whose face was concealed mostly in a robe of vibrant purple—held her wrists in a tight grip. The second man was larger by half than the first, and muscled like a blacksmith. He had a dark and shaggy beard, and he had the woman’s ankles grasped in his meaty hands. Between them, they stretched her out over the bowl and held her struggling form above the altar. She was naked, but something about her was regal and imposing, as if she had been a queen.
Dormael looked to the kneeling man, but he was oblivious to everything happening around him. He thought maybe to warn him, that maybe together they could stop whatever fate awaited the poor girl over the altar. Dormael waved his hands at the man, shouted at him, but to no avail. The bastard just went on praying.
He turned back to the scene at the altar, and looked just in time to see the old man gesture at the bowl. The ivy writhed and twisted, slithering across the bowl as it grew faster than anything should be able to grow. It reached up and wrapped the woman in its embrace, pulling her from the hands of the two men on either side of the altar. She struggled against it, and even fought some of it away, but it continued to crawl along her body, grasping at her with tendrils made of creeper vines.
The praying man saw nothing.
She began to scream as the ivy crawled into her mouth, and her voice shook the dream to its very foundations. Dormael stumbled away as another violent wave rushed out from the bowl and ripped through his body, sending his senses reeling. He tried to get to his feet, but the woman let out another agonized, terrified scream that shook his very bones.
Lightning struck the bowl, and everything went white.
***
“I mean no disrespect,” the captain stuttered, “but I can’t sail this ship without a certain number of crewmen. If they keep…ah…disappearing…then we’re dead in the water. The storm will take us.”
Maarkov would have laughed, if he had it in him. The entire situation was like something out of a macabre play. Maaz needed to kill in order to fuel his magic, and he needed the magic in order to speed their passage. The captain, however, needed the sailors in order to keep the vessel afloat in the first place. Everyone knew that Maaz had been killing the sailors, but everyone also knew that they were powerless to stop it.
At least the bastard has the guts to face down my brother on behalf of his men, Maarkov thought. That’s respectable, no matter what happens.
Maaz usually met dissent and criticism with one of two methods—torture, or murder. Sometimes it was one quickly followed by the other, and sometimes it happened at the same time. It was rare, however, that anyone said a sideways word to Maaz and lived too long afterward. Maarkov grimaced, and waited for the hammer to fall.
“Your point,” Maaz hissed at the man, “is taken. Get out.”
Maarkov watched the captain scramble from the room, and turned an incredulous look on his brother.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you show any mercy. Even when we were children, you twisted the heads from puppies,” Maarkov said, sauntering over to sit down across the desk from his brother. “I’m touched.”
“These men will all die when we reach the Sevenlands,” Maaz sighed, staring out at the dark, rolling seas. “I will need servants, and these men are a ready crop. Better to take them than the inhabitants of some village in a foreign land, and attract the attention of any authorities.”
“Ah,” Maarkov said, shuddering at the thought of what his brother meant. “Of course. For a moment there, I thought some vestige of humanity remained in that dried husk you use to slither around.”
“If all you’re going to do is sit there and bleat like some pained goat, then find somewhere else to whine,” Maaz spat. “I have plans to make, and your whimpering is distracting me.”
“What was the name of that village that we ran through when we were children?” Maarkov asked, ignoring his brother’s evil look. “The one where we hid in that farmer’s stables? That was so long ago, but I remember it well. All the cats in the village disappearing. You, in the middle of a pile of twisted little corpses.”
“And you,” Maaz spat, his dam finally giving way, “crying while you buried them. Even then, you were a coward.”
“I liked cats,” Maarkov grumbled. “I still like cats. What sort of bastard just kills a bunch of cats? My brother—that kind of bastard.”
“Is there a point to all of this drivel?” Maaz asked. “As much as I enjoy these little fits of nostalgia, I rather prefer the room when you’re not in it.”
“One day I’m going to pay you back for those cats,” Maarkov said, shooting his brother a smile. “Would it kill you if I twisted your neck that way? Would you just go on living? How difficult would it be to eat dead people when your head is facing your arse?”
“I could always test the theory on you.”
“You’re probably right—best to go with a tried and true method. Sharpened steel is hard to beat, when it comes to killing,” Maarkov said.
“You’re trying my patience,” Maaz grated. “If you’re just going to sit there and blather on like an idiot, then—”
Maarkov was out of his seat in a blink, his hand going for his blade. He had always been fast, agile, and whipcord strong. He’d had a very long time to hone his skill to a fine edge, and he summoned every bit of it as he sought his brother’s chest. His sword whipped from its sheath and arced for Maaz’s ribcage. Maarkov put his entire body behind the thrust.
The steel bit deep into Maaz’s flesh.
Maaz let out a surprised grunt as the steel parted his ribs, went through his body, and buried itself in the back of the chair. His hands sought the blade reflexively, and flinched away as the edge put delicate slices in his hands. Maarkov always made sure to keep his steel sharp.
“Must we…always do this, brother?” Maaz gasped.
Maaz opened his hand, and Maarkov felt the full force of his brother’s power. Something unseen slammed against him, driving him from his feet to fly across the room. His back smacked into the door that led out onto the deck, and stayed there as the pressure intensified. His chest compressed, driving the breath from his lungs, and he began to slide up the door. He choked, his feet kicking as they left the ground.
“It hurts every gods-damned time,” Maaz said. Maarkov watched through spot-filled vision as his brother wrenched the sword from his chest and flung it to the floor, trailing black, putrid blood. Maaz reached to the ground beside him, pulling a corked bottle out onto the table. Tiny points of light swirled around in the water contained within, like stars caught in a whirlpool. Maaz uncorked the bottle, turned it up, and drank a single point of light.
Maaz took a deep breath, shuddering at the sensation of the Soulspark. Maarkov knew the feeling well. Having the body knit itself quickly back together felt like a million spiders crawling around beneath the skin. It was not pleasant.
Maaz took a deep breath and stood from the chair, grimacing at the stains that his black, dead blood had left on the wood. He fingered the hole in his cloak, then made some gesture with his other hand, causing the hole to knit itself together—much like his flesh had recently done. Maaz took a deep breath, then turned a smile on his brother.
With a twist of Maaz’s wrist, Maarkov felt his entire ribcage crackle, and pain blossomed in his chest. Fluid filled his lungs, and he spat out a torrent of his own putrid blood. It tasted like ashes and sweat. He tried to growl at his brother in defiance, but all that came out was a pained gurgle.
“I know how you like to indulge your little urges, brother,” Maaz said. “But this, like your prattling, gets old very quickly. I’m going to leave the bottle here on the desk. When you reach the Soulsparks, you can have one. I’ll be in the corner meditating. Once you�
��ve healed, get out.”
With that, Maaz gestured again, and Maarkov’s legs both shattered at once. He screamed as best he could through all the blood that was rushing out of his mouth. Maaz turned from him, and he dropped to the floor of the cabin. Maarkov grimaced, and tried to crawl for the desk. Predictably, it was agony.
“The next time something like this happens, it will be worse,” Maaz said before settling into his meditation.
Maarkov clenched his jaw shut, and pulled his broken body toward the desk. Every finger’s width of progress cost him an eternity of pain. It was a long time before he reached the bottle.
Maaz never uttered a sound.
***
The next morning dawned clear and cold, and the wind ran unchecked across the hills. Dormael wrapped a cravat around his face to help keep the wind off—and to keep his swollen nose from running in the face of its chill. The dream weighed on his mind as he helped with the routine of breaking camp. He had no clue what the significance was, but he knew it must be something important if the armlet was taking the time to show it to him. Who had that poor woman been?
Even more pointedly—had those been the gods in his dream? The silent watchers arrayed around the temple, and the two men beside the altar, all struck chords of recognition with Dormael. He couldn’t be sure, and he wasn’t sure about how he knew…but he knew. He could feel it.
Did that mean the gods were real? Did that mean that this thing—Shawna’s armlet—was connected to them in some way? Evmir, who had apparently forged the world with his hammer, and Eindor, god of magic, had been the ones to stretch that poor woman over the bowl.
Dormael half expected to hear the song of the armlet whispering out into the morning, beckoning his own power to join it. He watched Bethany, looking for any signs that the girl had also received a dream from the artifact, but she was oblivious. D’Jenn, too, went about his business as if nothing had happened. The dream, for whatever reason, seemed to have been sent to Dormael alone.
Who in the Six Hells was that woman over the altar?
“What’s on your mind this morning, magus? Still brooding over last night?” Seylia asked, coming over to offer him some breakfast. Dormael eyed her for a moment, and took a steaming sausage from her. He needed to share his thoughts on the dream with D’Jenn, but he knew better than to mention them to Seylia. Dormael chose to keep his mouth shut.
“Just thinking on the journey,” he lied. He unwrapped the cravat to eat the sausage, and Seylia winced at the sight of his face.
“Your nose is swollen,” she grimaced, “and both your eyes are blackened. She knocked you a good one.”
“Believe me, I can feel it,” he grumbled.
Seylia gave him a piteous look, and fished something out of her purse. She took Dormael’s hand, opened it, and deposited her mystery gift inside. Dormael opened his hand and was surprised to see some sort of root.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s called Old Man’s Root,” Seylia smiled. “The Mals chew it. It dulls your pain, settles your stomach. Lots of old men on the savanna chew it to help their joints—hence, Old Man’s Root.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Don’t thank me, just try not to get hit in the face again. That stuff isn’t easy to come by,” she smiled. With that, she walked away to finish getting ready. Dormael watched her walk away, taking a moment to admire the way she looked in her riding pants.
He caught Shawna scowling at him, so he turned away to see to his own preparations.
They headed west along the dusty road as the sun rose behind them, casting long shadows from the odd bush or tree that dotted the hillsides. The wind blew unchecked over the hills, biting into their backs as they rode. Dormael hunkered deep into his cloak as the day wore on, and was thankful for the Old Man’s Root. His face throbbed in time with his heart, but chewing the bitter root kept it to a dull throb.
They picked up the pace around midday, with D’Jenn’s announcement that they were nearing Gameritus. Deciding to forego lunch in exchange for the time it would take to prepare it, they rode on towards the capital of Soirus-Gamerit. Dormael did not complain.
The city appeared on the horizon by late afternoon.
“Behold, Gameritus,” D’Jenn said to Shawna, waving dramatically toward the city in the distance.
“It has its own sort of beauty,” Shawna replied, squinting into the afternoon sun.
“It’s certainly not the ugliest place in the world,” Seylia sighed. Dormael would have chimed in, but his swollen face vibrated every time he spoke. He chose to remain silent as they made their way toward the city.
Gameritus was the oldest city in Soirus-Gamerit. It was the tribal seat—the city in which the leadership of the tribe made its headquarters—by virtue of its age. Dormael imagined that it might have been a thriving cultural center in generations past, but once Mistfall had risen to prominence in the region, people had no reason to come to Gameritus, save tribal business. Gameritus produced a lot of leather, and made money from selling stone from quarries that it claimed in the region, but little else worth mentioning came out of Gameritus. Dormael was surprised that the kansils hadn’t moved the seat to Mistfall in all the years since its growth, but they stayed in Gameritus despite the popularity of its sister-city.
Gameritus was a city of squat, single-story buildings huddled low under the city walls, which protected them from the wind that blustered across the hills year-round. Most of the buildings and houses were made of stone, as timber was expensive in this treeless land. The city’s quarries provided most of the stone that had built it, thus the prevailing color in Gameritus was neutral gray. The roofing tiles were varying shades of tan and reddish-brown, but the locals added splashes of color with pennants, flowers, and murals painted along the walls. Every street in Gameritus led toward the center of town, to what was referred to locally as the High City.
The High City was where all the municipal buildings, residencies of the tribe’s leadership, and temporary clan holdings were—along with a few of the more wealthy, or important, members of the Soirus-Gamerit tribe. The High City was encircled by a protective wall, with extra guard towers built in regular intervals. The fortifications hadn’t been used since the ancient days, as far as Dormael knew, and were of an antiquated design.
Everything outside the walls of the High City was colloquially called the Low City. Anyone who wasn’t wealthy or powerful resided in the Low City, from skilled tradesmen to beggars. Entire districts, where the once teeming masses of Gameritus would have lived, had been abandoned as the town’s residents sought safer homes, or better opportunities. Beggars and street gangs now ran these skeletal districts, where the ruins of stone tenements stood resolute against the forces of time. The officials had little ability to chase this element out of the city, and contented themselves with keeping the seedier folks confined to the decaying parts of town. Gameritus was a city with two distinct identities.
Dormael had never been fond of the place—either one of them. The residents of the High City tried very hard to turn a blind eye to things happening in the Low City, and left most of the residents to fend for themselves. The kansil of the tribe spent most of his time in Ishamael, working with the Council of Seven, and his clan leaders all had their own lands and people to worry about. Gameritus, since it was neither the most profitable, nor the most attractive city, was ignored. It suffered from the inattention.
Dormael was just glad that they hadn’t planned on spending more than a single night in town.
***
Bethany squeezed her eyes shut, her mouth twisted into a grimace of concentration. She sat completely still, her legs crossed underneath her, arms resting in her lap, and hands clutching her dress. Her brow knotted up now and then, as if she was straining against some invisible foe. She sat opposite D’Jenn, a small stone lying on the floor between them.
Dormael tried to hold back a smile at the look on her face, but couldn’t stop it from c
reeping up. The expression made his face throb with fresh pain, but the sensation was walled away behind his mental defenses. He listened to his Kai, singing in time with D’Jenn’s magic, and watched as his cousin tried to coax Bethany into accessing her own power. It hadn’t been going well.
“Be calm, dear,” D’Jenn said for the third time since they’d begun the exercise. “Don’t ride roughshod over your power, or allow it to do the same to you. Simply exist with it. Let it show you the world. Let it show you the rock. Can you feel the rock through your magic? Can you see it?”
“I see it,” Bethany sighed.
“Now, reach out with your Kai,” D’Jenn instructed.
“Alright,” Bethany said, her expression intensifying. Dormael felt her power stir.
“Now, try to take the rock gently into the grasp of your Kai.”
The rock gave a shudder and scooted away from Bethany.
“You’ve got the idea, little one,” Dormael said. “Just try and control it. Remain calm, and work with your power, not against it.”
Bethany’s brow knotted up.
The rock began to quiver, then rose slowly from the floor.
“That’s it,” D’Jenn smiled. “You’re doing it!”
Bethany opened her eyes and looked at the rock, which hovered in front of her face. She beamed at the innocuous stone, and reached out to flick it with one of her little fingers, sending it spinning in place. Dormael couldn’t keep the smile from his face, and let out a short laugh at the girl’s antics. D’Jenn started laughing as well, and Bethany looked to the two of them with a self-satisfied grin cracking her face in two.
The rock shot into the air and was embedded into the ceiling.
Bethany squealed in surprise, her power winking out. Dormael and D’Jenn broke down in a fit of laughter, which Bethany joined after a moment of embarrassment. Dormael reached out with his magic and plucked the rock from the ceiling, bringing it to rest once again on the floor.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 46
